The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (49 page)

Hercule nodded, regarding Margot in abject misery. She in turn watched me. “What will you do?” she said and for the first time I heard the tremor of uncertainty in her voice.

“Leave Guise to me,” I replied. And I meant it.

I disbanded the rabble in Chambord (which emptied my personal privy purse of funds) and returned with Hercule and Margot to Paris. As we rode into the city, where the bite of snow hung over the clutter of spires and turned the streets to frozen mud, I formulated my plan.

Henri met me in the Louvre. I did not like the way he looked; he was still gaunt, dressed head to toe in black. He had shaved his goatee and his hollow cheeks emphasized a relentless intensity in his eyes. But at least he was up. Birago had told me he had appeared to overcome the worst of his grief and had even begun to visit Louise, though as I glanced at her on a stool in the corner, remote as a shadow, I wondered just what these visits entailed.

My youngest son dropped to his knees before Henri’s impassive figure and confessed everything. After he was done, Henri waved him out without a word. Then he looked at me. I was relieved to hear the old
spark of defiance in his voice. “So, my idiot brother was led astray by Guise, who killed Guast because he thinks I am unable to rule or sire an heir.”

“It’s more than that,” I said, and I met his eyes. “Guise wants you to fail utterly. He used the knife with Navarre’s emblem to confuse us, to make you turn against Navarre and plunge us into war.” I paused, forming my next words with care. “I think we should sign a treaty with Navarre. He needs protection from Spain and we can provide it. He’ll cooperate.”

A vein in Henri’s forehead throbbed. He abruptly stood, flicking his hand at Louise. She hastened from the room. He paced to his desk. “A treaty with Navarre,” he said. He let out a dark chuckle, turned back to me. “I know why Guise hates me. Maybe instead of finding accord with Navarre, I should just take Guise’s arrogant head.”

“No, that is the last thing you should do. If we kill our premier Catholic noble, it will pit all the other lords against us. And we have no proof save Hercule’s word; Guise made sure of that. But he’s forgotten that I’ve lived through this before; I know he craves a religious war, just like his father, le Balafré, before him. He used Hercule as bait, but he’ll think twice about going any further if we find accord with Navarre, who can rally thousands of Huguenots when it suits him.”

Henri’s eyes narrowed. “And you think Navarre will receive you after what we did to him?”

“I’ll tell him I want to bring Margot to him. He’ll understand my purpose; after all, he’s heir to our throne after Hercule. He doesn’t want Guise to succeed any more than we do.” I lowered my voice. “And while I’m gone, you must try to get Louise with child.”

He hesitated, with a near-imperceptible wince of distaste. I did not press him. I thought again of that mousy queen he’d sent from the room and remembered the sight of Guast, strong and nude in his bed. I didn’t want to admit it, but deep inside I already sensed the worst and realized I must make plans for it. However, until the day came, I must be seen to support the illusory facade that Henri had constructed around his marriage.

He nodded curtly. “Fine. But promise nothing I might come to regret later.”

“Of course.” I moved to him. He accepted my kiss in silence.

I found Louise in the antechamber, a rosary in her hands. I paused, eyeing her. “You should rely less on prayer and more on effort, madame. Do I make myself clear?”

With a furtive nod and curtsy, she disappeared back into Henri’s room.

I
PREPARED FOR MY TRIP; I COULD BE GONE FOR MONTHS AND SO
I waited to tell Margot. When I finally summoned her, she seemed relieved.

Henri had gone with Louise to Vincennes, leaving me to close down the Louvre for the winter. Standing in my rooms, surrounded by my coffers, I sent my women to fetch us a meal, to refresh us after a long morning of work. Alone, I trudged into my bedchamber to get my Muet. My personal articles were stored in sandalwood chests and I’d left my old dog dozing on her cushion on a chair. She would not accompany me on my trip, blind and deaf as she was, but rather stay with Anna-Maria. I thought I’d sit and pet her awhile; but as I moved to where she lay curled up, her tail over her snout, I realized she was very still.

I froze to my spot. When I finally reached out to graze her white fur, which was still as pliant and full as in her youth, I felt ebbing warmth. She had died moments ago.

My world caved in. She was the last living memento of my daughter Elisabeth, her only gift to me; and as I stood over that little being I saw all those I had loved and lost, felt the weight of my struggles crush me, and the cry that broke from me was a desolate howl.

Lucrezia and Anna-Maria ran in. “No,” I heard myself say as they came to a halt beside me. “Not my Muet …” Lucrezia embraced me. Anna-Maria started to cry. At the sound of her grief I reached for her and we wept in each other’s arms like children.

Later that afternoon, we enveloped Muet in one of my shawls and took her to the Tuileries, where the gardeners labored to break the frosted ground. My hands trembled as I held her shrouded form; I could not surrender her and Lucrezia had to pry her from my fingers. I turned away to the leaden sky, the wind lacerating me as I heard the shovels begin to replace the dirt.

“Good-bye, my Muet,” I whispered, and my tears ran cold on my chilled careworn cheeks.

I was fifty-seven years old. I had contended with death all my life, burying a husband and four children, killing a lover and countless foes, but this small loss undid me.

If death had come for me that day, I would have welcomed it.

It took us three weeks to traverse France; when we finally entered the snowbound courtyard of his castle in Nérac, Navarre stood waiting for us.

He’d not ridden out to witness the celebrations his people had prepared for our arrival, nor had he seen the astonishment on their faces when they caught sight of Margot on her palfrey, dressed in a crimson gown trimmed in gold and an ermine-lined cloak. But I knew he’d been apprised of the stir she created and he greeted us with a sardonic smile, dressed in a plain black wool doublet and baggy breeches that reached to just above his knees. His build was compact, strong; his coppery hair messed atop his head like a storm-tossed thatch and his full beard exalting his long nose. His green eyes gleamed with mirth as he kissed Margot on the lips. She wrinkled her nose. Though he wasn’t unattractive, I could smell his pungent male scent even from where I stood and understood why Margot disdained him. Evidently, Navarre wasn’t in the habit of regular bathing, while she was fastidious when it came to hygiene.

“I’m overjoyed to see you again, my dear,” he drawled. He eyed the wagons of luggage coming into the courtyard behind us. “Did you bring all Paris with you?”

He didn’t wait for her response, turning to me with a broad smile, as if we’d only just seen each other last week. “Tante Catherine, welcome to my humble realm.”

I immediately detected the change in him. He might act indifferent, throwing on that devil-may-care air that had made him the darling of Paris’s whores, but I sensed a newfound self-assurance. Safely ensconced in his mountain kingdom, surrounded by his Huguenots, Navarre had come into his own. This time, it was I who was the guest in a hostile court.

I smiled in return. “My son, how fit you look. The air here suits you.”

“It should.” He guffawed. “It is my air, after all.” He took Margot by the hand. “Excuse me,
our
air. Everything I have is now yours, my queen. Come, I’ve prepared a suite for you.” He paused. “I hope it’s satisfactory. I fear I cannot compete with the splendors of the Louvre.”

I heard Margot reply, “I never expected you to,” and she took his arm to let him lead her into the castle, leaving me to trail behind and ignore his Huguenot councilors’ pointed stares.

Navarre delayed our official business, citing the upcoming Christmas celebrations. He organized a progress to show Margot off and his people regaled us with garlic stew and freshwater trout. As I jostled along in a litter behind the royal couple, I beheld a robust folk who regarded me with misgiving. Protestant to their core, to them I was the monstrous Queen Mother, instigator of the massacre, and some even went so far as to hold up two fingers as I passed, to ward off my evil eye.

I was less interested in how they felt about me, however, than in observing how they interacted with Navarre. That they loved him was undeniable. Everywhere he went, his subjects crowded about him and he never failed to heed them, showing no visible fear for his person as he listened to their complaints with a single-minded attentiveness. It was clear to me that since leaving France, he’d worked hard to shed his indolent image in favor of the mantle of a stalwart king, aware that his people’s admiration was his best defense. Though I felt guilty for thinking it, I couldn’t help but compare his affable manner with my Henri’s aloof complexity. While my son had to shield himself from those who might do him harm, Navarre went about seemingly without a worry, his
joie de vivre a beacon to anyone who crossed his path. Even Margot melted in his presence and began to display the coquettish air of her youth. I saw no sign that they had ever shared a bed, but watching her bat her eyes at him made me think it wouldn’t be too long before, smell or not, he won her over. And once she got with child, it would bind Navarre even closer to us.

Nevertheless, I’d never spent a colder winter in my life. The snow fell for weeks on end, blanketing everything, and while I huddled in his stone fortresses before the fire, Navarre strode about in shirtsleeves as if it were midsummer. His resiliency and cavalier attitude soon began to grate on me, for he behaved as though this were indeed some endless familial visit. And my aggravation only increased when I received word from Birago that Elizabeth Tudor had finally granted Hercule leave to pay her suit and Henri had dispatched my youngest son to England in a galleon loaded with gifts. I was irate that I wasn’t there to oversee Hercule’s departure and nervous about how he might behave so far from home.

Margot, on the other hand, had settled in. One afternoon after I awoke from a nap, stiffer and colder than when I’d first lain down, I went into the hall with Lucrezia in search of warmth and I found my daughter in the middle of the bare floor, directing what appeared to be a small army trudging past her with armfuls of boxes, furnishings, and tapestries. Seated on a new gilded chair by the hearth, Navarre twirled a goblet, an insouciant grin on his face.

“Dio Mio,”
I said, “what is this?”

“What does it look like?” Margot snipped. “I’m redecorating. All this stone and freezing brick—it’s barbaric. I’m a queen now and I must live accordingly.”

I glanced at Navarre. He shrugged. “She’ll empty my treasury at this rate,” he muttered, “but at least we’ll starve in style.”

That night, dressed in one of her fantastic wigs and revealing court gowns, Margot presided over a fifty-course feast in her newly decorated hall, delighted there wasn’t a lady present who could outshine her. Later I heard she and Navarre finally shared a bed, assuaging my fear that they’d go the rest of their lives without acknowledging the true purpose of their union.

The next day, Navarre sent word that he wished to see me.

I entered his private study—a masculine wood-paneled chamber Margot had not succeeded in overhauling during her rampage; it boasted a wide window that overlooked the snowcapped mountains, a threadbare rug underfoot, and racks of antlers displayed on the walls.

He motioned to a chair. Pouring two goblets of hot mulled cider, he handed one to me and said bluntly, “I wish to conclude our agreements. I don’t like having my life disrupted any more than it already has been. Tell me what you came here for, and if I can I will grant it.”

I took a sip of my cider, taken aback by his directness. “I wish for us to reach accord,” I began. “I believe we share a common belief in peace.”

“So the time has come for us to put the past to rest?”

I started. “Do you mock me?”

“Not in the least. But you’re not here for peace; you came to strike a pact. You want my allegiance and surety of my troops should you need them against Guise; in exchange, you promise that I will remain in the succession. Am I correct?”

As he regarded me calmly, awaiting my answer, I realized that raw potential I’d first glimpsed when he was a child had come into its own. He still needed finesse, but if he avoided a young king’s natural inclination to indulge in heroics, in time Henri of Navarre would be a magnificent ruler. This thought both excited and unsettled me; he was the perfect bulwark against Guise’s machinations, but he was also still a heretic.

“Yes,” I said, with a lift of my chin. “You are correct. It is why I am here.”

He moved to his desk. “I appreciate your candor. But seeing as I’m not the one who seeks bloodshed, what would I gain by submitting to your terms?”

“You’ll stop Guise. All you need do is—”